


Ti vogliamo bene, fiorellino

by shetlandowl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (But He Is A Little Dense), Domestic Fluff, Family Dynamics, If Steve's a grammar nazi will he have to punch himself?, Inadvisable Driving Techniques, M/M, Superfamily (Marvel), Thor Is Not Stupid, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-08 08:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12861060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shetlandowl/pseuds/shetlandowl
Summary: Peter's dads are predictable and boring, so when his best and coolest uncle suggests Peter jets off to see him in Rome over spring break, Peter won't let it go. The parentals aren't quite as thrilled as he, but Peter eventually gets his way and is off to the best freaking spring break EVER.ON HIATUS UNTIL JANUARY 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely and instantaneously inspired by the following delightful piece of trolling.
> 
>   
> 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

“DAD!”

“Yeah?” Steve called back from somewhere downstairs. “What’s up?”

“DAD—COULD YOU COME HERE, PLEASE?”

“NO SHOUTING IN THE HOUSE!” Tony yelled from his office down the hall from Peter’s bedroom, but Peter was already unplugging his laptop and sprinting down the stairs with it clutched in his hands. 

“Dad! Dad, look,” Peter beamed and all but threw the computer into Steve’s face when he found his dad in the kitchen. Steve grunted a little in surprise and tried to put the pear he’d been cutting up aside so he could take the computer from Peter and read the email properly. 

“Dad, please can I go? Please?” 

Steve was still reading the email, but his eyebrows quirked in an expression of minor exasperation. “I don’t know, Pete. Can you?”

Peter _barely_ contained his loud declaration that his dad was, in fact, the worst. “ _ **May I**_ go? Please?”

Steve hummed quietly in thought. “Did you solve his puzzle?” 

“Yeah! Yeah, I did,“ Peter answered immediately, almost climbing his dad in his hurry to look at the picture again. “That’s Rome, right? Uncle Thor is in Rome?”

Steve pressed a kiss to Peter’s hair in his pride, but he otherwise didn’t smile or praise him the way he usually would if Peter had been correct. “Tell me why you think it is Rome.”

A test. Always with the tests. 

“It’s most likely,” Peter replied with a shrug, “though I guess it could be any perimeter wall of a Roman theater, too.”

“What’s the difference?”

“There’s no difference in the walls,” Peter explained easily, having already considered it himself a few minutes ago. “The Colosseum is two Roman theaters put together, with a large amphitheater built into the center. But there aren’t that many Roman theaters that are fenced in,” he added in the end, pointing out the chain linked fence. 

“And why are you so sure it’s Roman and not Greek?”

“Roman theaters are free-standing,” Peter recited from memory. “The Greeks built theirs into hillsides and stuff.”

“That’s right,” Steve agreed with a proud smile, but for the first time that Peter could remember, his dad’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

“…hey, dad? You okay?”

“I don’t know, Pete,” Steve said in a careful voice. “It’s on the other side of the world—”

“But I’ll be with Uncle Thor—he’s a doctor, dad, I’ll be so safe they’ll try to hide me behind a painting.”

“Points for the pun, but a medical degree is not going to keep you from being mugged, or attacked, or—or worse,“ Steve started to say, and Peter groaned in frustration. 

“Dad! I’m sixteen years old! I can look after myself,” Peter insisted, “besides, I’m pretty sure nobody’s gonna pickpocket me with Uncle Thor around.”

“And will he be?” Steve countered, sounding tired already. “He’s there on business, Peter, you don’t know how much time he’ll have to hang out with you. You don’t speak Italian—“

“But I speak Spanish!” Peter tried to say over him, but Steve didn’t stop talking. 

“Why don’t you go somewhere closer for spring break? Philadelphia, or—Providence, or—”

“Dad, _nobody_ goes to Providence for fun!” 

“Alright, I get it,” Tony announced loudly was he walked into the kitchen. “Papa bear’s got a test coming up—a big, important test, because for some reason, twelve years of hands on experience isn’t enough. So, naturally, you two schedule one of your semi-annual disagreements _right now_. Any thoughts on how much longer you’re going to be shouting for?”

Steve made a gurgling, pained sound. “Tony.”

“Sorry, honey. That was a low blow,” he acknowledged with a rueful smile before correcting himself. “For how much longer are you going to be shouting?”

“Dad, may I go to Rome for spring break?” Peter asked him at the same time as Steve said, “As long as it takes.”

“But, dad!” 

“I don’t—okay, thirty seconds, Petey,” Tony said reasonably before he turned to Steve. “Babe, peach of my life, light of my stars: what’s wrong?”

“Thor’s working in Rome for some stupid reason, and he’s invited our son to visit him for spring break.”

“That’s… okay, good; pause,” Tony held up a placating hand to Steve and turned back to Peter. “Peter? Counter argument?”

“I’ve got straight-As, and you always say you know I’m responsible, and—dad, you’ve always talked about all the art, the architecture—it’s a chance to see it in person for the first time! I can use that camera you got me for Christmas—”

“So we’ll go together,” Steve started to say, but Tony held up a hand to remind him it wasn’t his turn.

“Why don’t you trust me to go with Uncle Thor?” Peter demanded, “when will you trust me to do anything alone—”

“Tu quoque, yellow card: zip it, Pete,” Tony interrupted him as soon as he overstepped the bounds, and he turned back to Steve. “Ball’s in your court.”

“Thor is a great guy with a heart of gold, but he’s got the attention span of a Labrador,” Steve said as calmly as he could. “I love the guy, he means well, but I’m not sending our son half-way around the world with nobody watching out for him but the God of Boudoir Thunder.”

“That doesn’t answer Peter’s question,“ Tony pointed out in a gentle tone. “Steve, you know he’s a responsible kid, he can handle Rome. He’s fluent in Spanish, he’ll pick up enough Italian by spring break to get by—right, kiddo?”

“Yeah!” Peter agreed at once, thrilled to have one parent in his corner. “Yes, of course—”

“It’s not the damn language, it’s—damnit, Tony,” Steve complained, but he pulled a bar stool closer so he could sit down before he fell down. “Peter, I know you feel like an adult right now, but you’re only sixteen. And I know your Uncle Thor is a cool guy, but sweetheart, cool is not the same as reliable.”

“Dad, I’m leaving for college in two years, you’re going to have to trust me to be out in the world alone sometime.”

“I’m a university professor, Peter: I really don’t.”

Tony waved his hands to interrupt whatever Steve was suggesting there. “No, no—yellow card, babe: stop right there. We are _not_ threatening our kid with stalking him around the world for life.”

Peter thanked him at the same time as Steve started arguing, and again Tony held up his hands to quiet them both. “Peter, you have six weeks before spring break. Keep up your grades, and you can go out to visit Uncle Thor— _and we will join you_ ,” he added as Steve got to his feet in a fit of pique, “a few days later. We’ll keep our distance, we’ll just be in town if you need us.”

“We will?” Steve breathed, watching Tony in disbelieving hope. “But, Tony. Your patients, don’t you have to be here?”

“Let me worry about that,” Tony promised, “I scheduled my exam during the holiday, it—we’ll make it work, okay? If that’s a fair compromise? Three days in Rome with Thor, and three days with us in town at a distance? Steve?” He prompted when neither of them said anything. “Peter?”

“Yes,” Steve answered immediately, looking like he couldn’t believe his luck. 

Peter eyed them, equally doubtful of his luck, but far more skeptical about it. “What does ‘at a distance’ mean?”

“It means your dads deserve a break, too,” Tony said patiently, but his words were really made redundant by the the arch of his eyebrow and the self-satisfied smirk of his lips. 

“Dad! God, don’t be gross,” Peter shuddered, since the last thing he ever wanted to think about was how his parents _occupied themselves_ in private. “Yes! Deal. Grades, they will stay up; Italian, it will be learned.”

“Va bene,” Tony settled, “Allora raga, scappa. Voglio mio marito. Da solo.”

Peter nodded slowly, knowing enough Spanish to decipher half of Tony’s words. He imagined he didn’t want to know the rest. 

“Honey, now would be a good time to go back to your homework,” Steve suggested with a strained innocence. Tony’s Italian only ever had one effect on him. 

“And, maybe put on some headphones?”


	3. Chapter 3

Peter had purposefully packed lightly so that his spare clothes, camera, and toiletries had all fit in his school bag as a carry-on. Having everything in one place made it so much easier for him when the plane finally touched down in Fiumicino airport, and he had the chance to run past clusters of sleep-walking tourists and business folk alike on his way to passport control.

As promised, Thor was waiting for him at the arrivals gate, standing head and shoulders above the mostly-Italian crowd.

“My tiny adventurer!” Thor laughed loudly in greeting, drawing Peter in for a hug that knocked the wind out of his lungs. “Welcome, Peter! It is good to see you—I trust you had a good flight. You must be hungry! What say you to breakfast? Come, I know just the place,” Thor promised before Peter had a chance to reply. “Have you given thought to where we shall go, or what we shall see?”

“I do—I have!” he said in a rush, before Thor decided that without him, too. “I’ve got a list,“ he explained, holding up a well-worn notebook.

“Is that so?” Thor asked with an easy laugh, scrubbing a big paw through Peter’s hair and giving his backpack a tug. “How about I carry that?”

“It’s alright, uncle Thor,” Peter answered, re-adjusting the backpack on his shoulders. “It’s not heavy.”

“Give it here,” Thor insisted, and Peter didn’t see the point of continuing to refuse. “You’ve been on a flight for hours, be comfortable. Tell me of your plans.”

“It’s not that much, you know, just some ideas, itineraries, then back-up plans, you know—in case the first are too slow or too much… And! I studied a map of the city, so if you have to work, uncle Thor, I want you to know that I know these streets really well, you don’t have to worry about me at all.”

“Worry about you?” Thor asked in surprise. “Not a chance, Peter. In fact, before I forget,” he added, handing Peter a set of keys. “Mi casa es su casa! Should you retire while I am at the lab, help yourself to anything.”

“Oh, thanks!” Peter replied with a grin, trying to be really cool about having keys to his cool uncle’s _Roman apartment._ The effort was abandoned entirely when Peter caught Thor throwing his backpack into the backseat of a cherry red convertible.

“You alright, kid?” Thor asked him when Peter had stood there, frozen and staring, for too long. “Hop in.“

“This is a [1959 Ferrari 250 GT Cabriolet](https://www.goodingco.com/vehicle/1959-ferrari-250-gt-series-i-cabriolet/),” Peter breathed, absolutely stunned. “This—this is—this is— _this is your car?_ ”

Thor’s face split in a grin the moment he realized what had happened, and he shot Peter a wink before hopping in behind the wheel. “How about when we’re out of the city, I’ll let you drive it?“

“Dad will _die_ when he hears about this!” Peter squeaked in a sudden thrill of excitement, abandoning any pretense at staying cool for his first adult trip abroad. He got into the passenger seat of the car with the reverence of a craftsman in the presence of his first Michaelangelo, and tried not to cry.

***

“I thought we could go easy today, you know, just walk and see the sights—start with the ruins, the Colosseum, the Roman Forum—wait, actually, no,” Peter corrected himself, speaking so fast his words ran into one another, but he still didn’t bother taking a breath before continuing. “We should start with the Palatine Hill, that’s where Rome started, you know, it’s the central hill—the Seven Hills of Rome? They say that’s where Romulus and Remus had their legendary fight, when Romulus killed his brother—to be fair, dad said if we’re going to believe the whole Etruscan history, it would be a very different story; but either way, it’s still interesting, I want to see it!”

Thor leaned back in his seat to lounge a little better in the sunshine, and his smile grew the more Peter talked. “Then we will certainly visit these ruins today, Peter. Today I need only be at the office briefly in the afternoon, so once we finish breakfast here, we shall go to these Palpatine Hills.”

“Pa-la-tin-e,” Peter corrected automatically as soon as he drained his fourth marocchino. “It comes from the Latin _Palatinus_ , ‘of or belonging to the Palatium’, referring to a palace, a high ranking Roman official, or, in this case, the Hill itself. But your reference is actually on point, that’s why George Lucas named Palpatine that. If you believe dad, anyway—he’s convinced George Lucas is a, quote-unquote, lazy son of a bitch, who could be replaced by Google Translate without anyone noticing, but then dad told him there was no need to be rude about it just cause he didn’t want to accept that Greedo shooting first makes the plot smoother.”

Thor frowned behind his sunglasses in confusion, so Peter shrugged and added, “I think Han would be just as likable if they showed that he shot first.”

“A forgivable offense, then,” Thor offered, and when Peter only smiled in return, he grinned back, pleased his gamble was true. “Alright, Peter—another espresso for the road?“

“Those were espressos? Dad _never_ lets me drink coffee, let alone espressos, but those were _so good!_ ” Peter answered eagerly, and he got to his feet so quickly he almost toppled his chair over backwards. Thor left a few coins on the table and got up to walk out of the cafe with him, still patiently listening to what Peter had to say.

“My heart is racing, Uncle Thor, I’m so excited—you know, if we hurry, we might even make the 1:30 tour of Domus Aurea’s restoration site! We have to do it! We can see how they believe Emperor Nero lived—some people actually believe he was behind the Great Fire of Rome that took out a huge part of Palatine Hill where the wealthiest Romans lived, just so the land would be free for this palace he wanted to build. But dad likes him cause he supported the arts; and! Did you know he was emperor in the time that Boudica was defeated? So, in a way, he’s the one who gave us Platform 9¾. Not that war is ever good, you know, but that’s kinda cool.”

“Was that not a contemporary novel?“

“Yes, but they say Boudica is buried between Platforms 9 and 10 at Kings Cross, and that she still haunts it—OH! Oh, Uncle Thor! Uncle Thor, there’s an eight o’clock tour for the mysteries and legends of Rome, can we go?”

“I don’t see why not—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence before Peter spoke over him again in his excitement. “Awesome, yes! Okay, that—that should be great, especially with the ruins today, and Palatine Hill—I’m sure they’ll take us back and tell us things the audio tour wouldn’t cover, cause, why would they put legends in there, right? But the Crypt of Caligula is there, it’s _got_ to be haunted. If anyone is haunted, it’s Caligula.”

“You know, Peter… I have a colleague whose daughter is visiting from Boston. Perhaps she would—”

“Yeah! That’s cool—we don’t have this in America—I mean,” he scoffed, barely stifling a giggle at his own joke. “We didn’t even have _Romans_.”

“Excellent!” Thor grinned, already digging his phone out of his jacket pocket. “To the Palpatine!”

“Pa-la-tin-e,” Peter corrected again, “it comes from the Latin _Palatinus_ —“

“I know,” Thor interrupted in a gentle tone, or possibly he was trying not to laugh at Peter. “Not funny? A Han Solo joke? Poorly executed, perhaps—”

“No! Puns are totally cool!” Peter assured him in a rush and took off with another story about how he and dad have standing seasonal penny wars over puns. If the loud purring of the engine drowned out half of his story, neither of them seemed to notice.

***

Tony looked up from his textbook and wriggled his feet in Steve’s lap, where they were snuggly tucked away in his blanket. Steve didn’t look up from the essay he was currently frowning at, docking the appropriate points from a student’s paper before humming in question.

“I sense a disturbance in the force.”

“I’m not turning down the air conditioning,” Steve told him, not for the first time, as he continued grading. He didn’t notice Tony rolling his eyes.

“We did the right thing, didn’t we?” Tony wondered after a beat, apropos of nothing. “Letting him go. Thor is okay, right? Tell me Thor is okay.”

Steve sighed and finally looked up, taking his glasses off so he could pinch and rub at the bridge of his nose. “Thor is okay. Peter is going to be fine,” Steve said, eventually. “And you were right, you know,” he added, turning to look at Tony with an affectionate smile. “Peter deserves it. If anything goes sideways, I’d rather it happen when he’s still at home, before he goes to college. Besides, he’ll be going from one major tourist attraction to the next. At worst, he’ll be pick-pocketed.”

“Yeah,” Tony agreed. “I’m—yeah, you’re right. Everything will be fine.”

***

“Oh, my, _god_ … I’m dying…“

“There, there,” the lady rubbing Peter’s back soothed gently, then she swept the hair from his forehead in a way that kind of reminded Peter of how Tony would take care of him when he was sick.

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” another voice said, and was immediately scolded for it. “Come on, mom! It’s his own fault; four espressos in half an hour?”

“‘m didn’t know,” Peter mumbled, barely intelligible with his cheek resting heavily against the toilet seat.

“That’s alright, Gwen—here,” the lady rubbing his back stopped to say, squeezing Peter’s shoulder gently so he would look up and see the glass of water she was holding for him. “Your uncle brought this.”

“Thank you, Alva,” Thor said from somewhere outside the bathroom. “Perhaps we should leave the Roman Forum and history tour for another day, Peter? A quiet night should do you good; how about dinner?“

“That’s not a bad idea,” Alva replied with a smile in her voice. “What do you think, Peter? Having a little food in you could help.”

Peter wasn’t sure what he had managed to say in answer, but whatever it was they must have taken it for agreement. Once he kept enough water down and had stopped dry heaving, the four of them got in their respective cars to meet up at an agreed-upon restaurant unlike anything Peter had seen.

There was no question that Manhattan had its own selection of exceptional, high-end restaurants. His parents may be more of the mom-and-pop, hole in the wall sort of people, but even they had taken Peter out for special occasions to places requiring ties and buttoned shirts that were tucked in.

Yet somehow Peter felt particularly impressed when they were seated within minutes at Marzapane, and Thor informed their waiter that they would begin with two of each tasting menu and two bottles of wine from some place he could not recognize.

“I operated on the chef’s brother two months ago,” Thor explained when Alva asked how he had even gotten them a table so quickly. “Their Carbonara is magnificent, you must try it.”

Peter stared between the two as Alva blushed and Thor preened, until he yelped at a kick in the shins that nearly gave his whole game up. He made some excuse about hiccups, and as soon as the adults were busy with themselves again, he turned to glare at Gwen.

“Why is your uncle flirting with my mom?” she demanded of Peter in a whisper.

“Why is _your mom_ flirting with _my uncle?_ ”

“Because you’re the only manchild on the planet that doesn’t know how to drink coffee!” she hissed in exasperated disbelief. “Seriously! Four espressos?”

Peter frowned, though he did look contrite about the whole mess. “Look, how many times do I have to say I didn’t know? It’s not like I wanted to spend two hours with my head in a toilet.”

“I really wanted to see the Roman Forum,” she said after a brief silence, bitterly but without anger, as if she simply needed him to know she was upset about it. “I’ve never been to Italy before.”

“Me neither,” Peter replied with a wry expression. He then shrugged a little, and tried to change the topic. “Uncle Thor’s working tomorrow, but I’m going to the Vatican. What about you?”

“I’m going to see the Catacombs of Domitilla,” she said with an excitement she was trying to hide, but once Peter, who had somehow completely forgotten to include catacombs on any of his itineraries, stared at her in slack-jawed shock, she let herself smile a little. “They’re the only ones with an underground basilica.”

Peter squeaked to himself. “No way! What! How?”

When the food arrived, the conversation only grew more animated and excited, and with Thor at the table, somehow the food and drinks never stopped coming. By the time the sampler platter of dessert was placed at the center of the table, Peter sat back and momentarily regretted his second helping of Cacio e Pepe.

“When in Rome,” he reminded himself quietly before picking up his next fork.

Gwen picked up her own dessert fork and grinned slyly at him in challenge. “When in Rome.”

***

“Dad, if you could taste this pizza right now,” Peter moaned deliberately into the phone. “It is out of this _world!_ ”

“Maybe don’t antagonize your father?” Steve tried to say without laughing, and from somewhere in a distance Peter could hear Tony grumbling in a way that made Steve laugh. “You’re—no, you’re staying! Come back to bed!”

“He’s making me hungry—”

“Then I’ll go get you food,” Steve said calmly. “You’re not leaving this room until you leave for the exam.”

“Aw, dad,” Peter sympathized quietly. “Did dad put your books away?”

“You’ve studied for weeks, you deserve one morning of rest,” Steve continued, as if the other two weren’t commiserating through speakerphone right in front of him. “Do you want a second breakfast?”

“No,” Tony grumbled quietly, and then there was a momentary, unnatural silence Peter could only attribute to mute before they came back. This time, both his dads were more cheerful. “So, what’re you doing today, Petey?”

“I was at St. Peter’s Basilica first thing in the morning, like you said, and it was _amazing!_ Dad,” he said with a sudden excitement that meant he was addressing Steve about either art or history. “You have to see it when you come here! You can practically see the different styles and eras—and the piazzo, from above? It’s so cool, and the bridges over the Tiber down to the Castle of Sant’Angelo; but I promise, I’ll wait for you—” he added quickly, and Tony started laughing.

“Don’t tease your father, Peter,” he drawled dryly, then with a big smile said, “where are you going to next?”

“Did you get a rosary for nonna?” Steve asked, which gave Peter pause.

“Oh—oh _shit_ , I’ll—I’ll do that right now,” he promised, and started looking around him immediately for a souvenir shop. Two seconds ago he wouldn’t have sneezed without hitting one, but now, like magic, they were all hiding from him.

“Language,” Steve warned at the same time as Tony said, “It’s alright, Petey, we’ll pick one up for her later.”

“But I was—I saw a shop just a second ago,” he rushed to say, but where the hell was that stupid store when he needed it?

“It’s okay Peter, I was just asking,” Steve tried to add, “dad’s right, we’ll get her one when we all go together. Maybe that’s better,” he added, as if to himself.

“What’s the rest of your afternoon looking like?” Tony repeated, trying to take Peter’s mind off of his nonna’s rosary. “I have a six-hour exam in three hours, tell me so I can live vicariously through you.”

“I,” Peter started slowly, distractedly, as he retraced his steps in search of the shop he’d liked in passing. “I’ll be going to the Vatican; I got the tickets ahead of time like dad said, and then I’m meeting up with uncle Thor and his lady friend at Alfredo alla Scrofa for dinner. He said it’s where fettucini alfredo was first invented, is that true?”

“Honey, your dad only pretends he knows everything,” Steve replied while Tony said, “Not really: it’s the restaurant that guy sold his recipe to.”

“Dangling preposition,” Steve complained, and Peter could hear Tony kiss him in apology.

“Alfredo sold his recipe for his noodles to the restaurant owners sometime in the early 1900s,” Tony rephrased, more mindful of his grammar. “The sauce isn’t really that special, it’s just good butter and good cheese. The noodles are what set an Italian dish apart.”

“Oh. Thanks, dad,” Peter said with an audible grin. “Well, that’s what I’ll be having for dinner. But Gwen was saying seafood is really big here, too? But it doesn’t look that special, I think. And she’s from Boston, so I don’t know why she’s so impressed!”

There was a beat on the other end of the line, before both his dads asked in unison: “Who is Gwen?”

“She’s this lady’s daughter,” Peter said without thinking, because, oh, god, _what had he done?_

“That’s very nondescript,” Tony drawled, while Steve tried to be more encouraging.

“That’s fascinating, Peter,” he said with a transparent attempt at innocence. “Tell us a little more about Gwen.”

“I—there’s nothing to say, really,” Peter mumbled, then, realizing it would only get worse once his dads landed, decided he might as well bite the bullet. “She’s Thor’s lady-friend’s daughter, she’s in a gap-year before college because she doesn’t know what she’s going to do or where she’s going to go, but she’s really interested in medical research on dementia, and she’s looking at Stanford, but I think that’s cause we’re in Italy and she’s a big eater—like, last night,” Peter suddenly gushed with excitement, “dad, I ate half of both tasting menus, but I hadn’t had the cacio e pepe yet so she told me I had to eat that—it was so good I had two! I thought I was going to burst, but then uncle Thor ordered one of all of the desserts, and, man. She’s got _great_ taste, and she’s researched all these restaurants and creepy places—dad, did you know there’s something called a Capuchin Crypt?”

“No,” Steve lied, “did she tell you about it?”

“That’s where she’s going before dinner; today is her Crypts of Rome day—she named her daily itineraries thematically, too!” Peter crowed, and in his excitement just kept talking. “We might go to some haunted tour of Rome tonight; I couldn’t last night, but it was on her agenda for today, so she suggested I come along, and, and—cause there’s no point missing it, you know? I thought that made sense.”

“That sounds very wise,” Steve agreed over the sound of muffled shuffling somewhere in the background. “She sounds like a great traveling companion.”

“Maybe,” Peter said, and he lumbered on the thought and scuffed his shoe against the cobblestones. None of them said anything for a while, until Peter mumbled, “I haven’t traveled with her, per se, but—I was thinking of asking her, maybe—or, well… I don’t know what to do on the third day now, cause I think I’ll be doing it again when you come—”

“Uh huh,” Steve encouraged eagerly and was audibly smacked for it, but Peter was too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice.

“Maybe we could do a day trip, you know? I’ve heard so much about Sorrento—”

“Their work with coral is outstanding,” Tony said, but Peter didn’t seem to notice that either.

“—or Bari? I wanted to visit Puglia with nonna, but I can’t stop thinking of all the stories she told, and I kinda can’t believe you can make brick igloos—”

“Petey,” Tony said a little more loudly and definitively to finally catch Peter’s attention. “Sweetheart, I see where you’re coming from, and it’s sweet—really, it is—but if you come back from Italy to tell nonna that you chose not to visit her family’s ancestral corner of Italy because you thought she should be there, she will salt your milk for the rest of the year.”

“Oh,” Peter breathed, trying to stay calm. “Then… then, maybe I’ll ask Gwen tonight,” he said casually, “see if, you know, maybe, she wants to go. Too. Obviously. I mean, there’s no point if she doesn’t—that doesn’t mean I won’t see it, but maybe she doesn’t want to, maybe—maybe she has plans, you know? So it wouldn’t work out.”

“Well,” Steve said slowly, trying to be very calm about it, “that sounds reasonable, but there’s only one way to find out. Okay, honey, good luck with everything, but I have to get your dad kicked into gear for the exam he doesn’t want to take. Keep sending me pictures, okay? My students are loving it,” he added with a smile.

“I will!” Peter said with an answering smile, “love you! Good luck, dad!”

“I don’t need _luck_ —” Tony started to boast, but Steve turned the phone off speaker phone and answered for him.

“Your dad is very grateful,” Steve assured him, “we both love you very much, and we can’t hear more about your adventures tonight. Talk to you later, Peter!”

“Later, dad!” Peter answered, then hung up. He had a full day ahead.

***

He was stepping out of the Vatican post office when he felt a notification buzzing in his jacket pocket. Peter had nearly forgotten how he and Gwen followed each other on WhatsApp at dinner, but clearly she hadn’t.

He swiped over to the app immediately and found a photo message from Gwen, along with a brief note.

_“Last thing they need is a coffin.”_

He might have laughed out loud in the middle of the little plaza, but the important thing was she would never know. Instead, he started a reply of his own.

_"Holy shit.”_ he sent first, followed immediately by, _“Or maybe not. Hard to tell from this angle.”_

She didn’t reply to his comment directly, and instead wrote back: _”Think it’s proportional?”_

Peter rolled his eyes, spent thirty seconds on the internet, and responded with only one photo.

***

“I read this book on Italian food,” Gwen said as she leaned closer to point out the prawns on Peter’s menu. “Seafood and cheese aren’t meant to go together.”

“So, no prawns,” Peter concluded with a hum. “But then—fish sounds great, but I’m having the fettuccine alfredo, without question. That’s all dairy.”

“—so no fish,” Gwen agreed, but she looked at him curiously. “You’re believing the Alfredo origin story?”

“I’d like to?” Peter admitted a little shyly, “it had to start somewhere, you know? And this is Italy! Why couldn’t it be here? It’s, isn’t that romantic? I like that,” he added more quietly.

Gwen watched him through the little confession, then quickly looked down at the menu to hide her blush and her smile.

“Alright, well,” she said quietly, clearing her throat. “Tagliata all'aceto balsamico e pepe rosa?” she pronounced carefully.

“If you roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, that makes the _gli_ sound,” Peter noted, then hurried to add, “I’m—I don’t, I’m not, you know, fluent or anything, but my nonna, dad’s—well, one of my dad’s mom, she’s from a village near Lecce, she, she helped me before the trip. She says it’s one of the hardest sounds in Italian, second to _sci_.”

“Gli,” Gwen tried again, slowly, but it was a struggle to do it without laughing in Peter’s face from embarrassment. Peter, acutely aware of his own novice knowledge of Italian, couldn’t help but laugh with her.

“Oh, god, we’re the blind leading the blind,” he mumbled as he hid his face behind his hands for just one moment before shaking it off. “Okay—no, but, okay so if we do fettuccine alfredo, and the tagliata all’aceto balsamico,” he said carefully and to Gwen’s enthusiastic (if indulgent and laughing) applause, “ _so_ , I really think the prosciutto with melon would be a good idea, it sounds so good—”

“Prosciutto? Hell yeah,” she seconded with a big smile. “But you have to order it.”

Peter blinked at her for a moment, then with a perfectly straight face turned to Thor and cleared his throat. “Uncle Thor? We know what we want.”

“Terrific!” Thor said with a big smile, but startled a little when Gwen smacked Peter’s arm. “I—beg pardon?”

“Peter is going to order,” Gwen insisted, “in his paternal language.”

Thor looked from one of them to the other, as if he suspected a trick was being played on him. “...but Peter only has paternal languages.”

“He has a point,” Peter agreed, still with a straight face. “Should I order in English?”

“You’re such an ass,” she laughed and snatched the menu out of his hands. “Then I’ll order, _in Italian_. If you correct me.”

“Fine,” Peter shot back, “challenge accepted. But if you crash and burn before you have the legendary fettuccine, don’t come crying to me.”

“I’ll go crying to your grandma, is what I’ll do,” Gwen challenged, to Peter’s exaggerated gasp of horror.

“Your grandmother… is Italian?” Thor guessed, since he and Alva had stopped talking to try to puzzle together what Peter and Gwen were on about.

“She is, so she and dad can speak it,” Peter explained, “but dad was learning Spanish for work when I was adopted, so he practiced on me for years.”

“Instead of speaking Italian to you?” Alva wondered, a little saddened. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Well, he argues that Spanish is more useful,” Peter said with a little shrug, “and then that he didn’t have anyone else to practice Spanish with, cause dad wouldn’t let him get a cat.”

Alva laughed in surprise at the comment about the cat, then had to ask, “You call both your fathers dad?”

“They know who I’m referring to, and so do I,” Peter smiled, shrugging a little, “that’s all that matters, really.”

“That’s fair,” Alva agreed, a little surprised this time by the simplicity of his answer. She leaned in as if she was going to say something else when the waiter arrived, whom Thor directed to Gwen for their orders.

“Per antipasto, per io e lui,” she said slowly, pointing to Peter, “facciamo prosciutto—”

“Sh-i-u,” Peter suggested quietly.

“Facciamo prosciutto e melone,” she said again, taking more care with the sci as Peter pointed it out, “per primo facciamo fettucine alfredo.”

“Bene,” the waiter grinned back, taking notes as she spoke. “Per secondo?”

“Per secondo,” she started to say, then wrinkled her nose at the prospect of saying the damn word.

“Gli,” Peter said, so she had the sound fresh in her mind.

“Tagliata,” she said slowly, and the waiter nodded immediately, assuring her he understood, “all’aceto balsamico.”

“Belissima,” the waiter said with a kind smile, “Insalata, o contorni?”

Peter shook his head when Gwen looked at him, so she simply said no.

“Dolci?”

Peter snorted at the question, because that’s how smooth he was. “Duh! Oh _shi_ —”

“Merde,” the waiter supplied helpfully, and around Peter, everyone laughed while he turned bright red and tried to hide his face in the cloth napkin.

“Per dolci facciamo due tiramisu, mille grazie,” he hurried to say before he lost his nerve.

“Certo, signora e signore,” the waiter said with a kind smile, then turned to Alva and Thor for their orders.

“You were great!” Peter congratulated her with a big smile, though she laughed at the same time as she thanked him. “That was terrific, the whole order.”

“And you were told!” she laughed, “I guess your gran didn’t step in for the curse words, did she?”

“Oh, no, she’s great at cursing,” Peter said with a proud grin, “it’s my dad: he’s allergic to bad words, or something. And poor grammar. Dangle a preposition and you might as well have insulted all his ancestors.”

“And, what are his ancestors? Not Italian?”

“Oh, no, he’s all-American,” Peter laughed, “his great-great-grandparents on his mom and dad's sides both immigrated from somewhere in Ireland before the first World War—the Great War,” Peter corrected, as if he could sense Steve frowning over his shoulder. “He think he’s mostly Irish and Welsh, but can’t be sure.”

“And your other dad’s dad?”

Peter frowned a little. “Not in the picture. Don’t think nonna knows, to be honest,” he admitted. “But she’s amazing; dad had three parents in her. And she doesn’t trust medicine, which is hilarious, cause dad’s like a crazy good doctor. Surgeon,” he corrected again, before he felt his dad's disappointment in needlessly vague language. “But then it’s dad who usually has final say anyway, cause he stays home with me, and nonna loves it, cause he’s more about home remedies, too.”

“Are you Skyping her every day while you’re here?” she asked curiously, absently playing with her hair as they talked. “She must be so happy for you.”

“I’ve been trying to text her, in Italian—and pictures, you know,” he added with a smile, but he couldn’t quite manage to keep calm or cool now that a natural opportunity to invite her to Puglia tomorrow somehow, and he stammered a little over regular words. “I sent her a rosary today, actually when I got your message—did you know you can get rosaries blessed by the Pope the same day you buy them?” he said in a rush, clinging to a chance to say something that had nothing to do with the question he really wanted to ask.

“No, I didn’t,” Gwen said, pleasantly surprised. “I have an aunt who’s a big-time Catholic, that would be such a great gift.”

“They have everything,” Peter told her with a big smile, “from the rosewood rosaries for like, thirty bucks, to—no joke—a Galadriel rosary, with mother of pearl beads and a filigree cross. It was gorgeous.”

“Tragically, that reference would be lost on her,” Gwen said with an exaggerated frown. “Some people are beyond help.”

Peter laughed before he could stop himself. “My dad's like that, too! He’s a history teacher at Hunter College, he reads _everything_ under the sun. Can’t tell Tom Hardy from Tommy Lee Jones. I think he knows Beyonce now, sort of?” he thought out loud, and Gwen was laughing so much she started to tear up. “But if you ever want someone to recite Hamlet to you verbatim, he’s your guy.”

“No way,” she nearly wheezed, impressed but still breathless from laughing.

“Oh, yes way,” Peter assured her. “For a while, my favorite bedtime story was his recitation of _Here’s a knocking indeed!_ from Macbeth—he is _so good_ , I don’t understand how it would put me to sleep, but that, you know, did it. He remembers everything, it’s nuts—we were learning about Puglia together, cause he didn’t know much about the region, and I swear he could write a book about it now. He’s made this list of sites, it might as well be my itinerary all day tomorrow, he just finds this stuff—there’s this cliffside, right, Torre Sant’Andrea, right outside nonna’s village. And I thought I’d swing by, they—dad, they, uh,” Peter stammered to an end, suddenly derailed when he realized he’d come back to the topic of visiting Puglia, and he stared at Gwen like a deer in headlights.

“Peter?” she asked when he stopped talking and was just staring at her instead. “Are you okay? Did you remember something?”

“I, forgot to check the weather report, for—for tomorrow,” he stammered, then cleared his throat. “I was thinking, um, of going out there—I got a camera and photography lessons last year for Christmas, and I thought I’d try to get a nice photo of the coast for her.”

“You’re going tomorrow?” she asked with a smile, as if it wasn’t the most daunting conversation topic for him right now. “That’s going to be amazing, Peter.”

“Nonna said, back in the day, they’d build these trulli houses,” he tried to go on, smiling bravely, “they look like cone-topped igloos built with tiny square bricks, like cobblestones. It was an ancient air conditioning system, she said, so the wind would blow around the whole house and cool it off naturally. I, I think that’s really cool.”

“Well,” Gwen said, after a beat. “I’d love to see your pictures? I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Oh. Uh,” Peter said in a most eloquent reply. “How—would, um. What are you doing tomorrow? Cause, you know,” he stammered quietly, glancing down at the table cloth for a moment, but no more, forcing himself to look her in the eyes and say the words he’d been thinking about all day: “I’d love the company, if you’d want to come to Puglia. With me, I mean—tomorrow.”

“I—really?” she asked in surprise, blinking at him now in response. “That—are you sure? Because, if, if it’s not imposing on family stuff, that sounds—yeah, I would love to!”

***

“She said YES!”

Thor stared at him in wide-eyed panic.

“Peter, now,” he said slowly, “understand that I, more than your fathers, support your independent decisions—”

Peter blinked at him in return, confused by Thor’s sudden shock. “I… but, my dads thought it was a good idea?”

Thor almost choked on his own sentence and stared at Peter, now in genuine surprise. He couldn’t remember how many glasses of wine he’d had with dinner, but surely it couldn’t have been _that_ many. “They did?”

“It’s not like I proposed marriage or anything,” Peter said quietly, but that only made Thor more confused.

“You didn’t?”

“Uncle Thor, are you alright?” Peter now wondered, sitting down on the coffee table in Thor’s flat so he could be closer to eye-level with his uncle who was draped over the couch. “Did—do you need coffee?”

“Ah, no, Peter. Forgive me,” Thor replied quietly, smiling kindly at him. “I must have misheard you at first. What has young Gwen agreed to that has you this excited?”

“I’m going to visit Lecce tomorrow, in Puglia,” Peter explained, “she said she’d come with me. We’re taking the 7:32 train in the morning.”

“That is fantastic! A marvelous day,” Thor agreed eagerly now, and quite relieved. “I shall take you to the station myself; be ready by 7:10, alright?”

Peter gave him a skeptical look, though for the life of him, he was blanking on where the train station was with respect to Thor’s flat. “Will that be enough time?”

“Of course!” Thor promised with a huge grin. “You’ll be there with plenty of time, you have my word.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you ever feel like a Stony chat, [I'm on Tumblr (as shetlandowl)](http://shetlandowl.tumblr.com/) more often than I should be.


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